Cambridge Road
by Wraithwitch
Summary: Short & foolish fic. A shameless excuse for someone like me to meet Holmes... And discover that fact is less comforting than fiction and time travel is a pain. NO romance! Contains mild swearing.
1. Chapter 1

"I was angry with my friend; I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe; I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I sunned it with smiles, and with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, 'til it bore an apple bright..."

I paused, the last bit sounded wrong. It was entirely possible there was another verse.

"_Something-something_ - And into my garden stole, when the night had veiled the pole; in the morning glad I see," I treated the last line with particular venom, "my foe outstretched beneath the tree."

I was aware that passers-by were walking all the faster on account of my angry mutterings and that suited me fine. I smiled wickedly and directed the smile, for lack of a better target, at a lady walking her dog. The dog whined at me and the lady fled with a justifiably startled look.

I walked slowly, only quickening my pace as I crossed the road. (Even in my current mood I had no wish to be run over.) I looked up at the sky; it was overcast and harshly lit by the struggling rays of a dull and setting sun. Gods, it was beautiful. If I was really lucky, it might even rain...

I smiled lop-sidedly at the thought; my feet would get very wet. Leaving the house in a foul temper after yet another 'disagreement' with my parents, I hadn't paid attention to my lack of shoes and socks until the gravel of the drive was digging into my soles. Besides, it would somewhat spoil the dramatics of the situation if I returned, grabbed my boots, and stomped out again. I hadn't got my coat either, although I did have a scarf draped around my neck and house keys in my pocket, so at least I wouldn't have to ring on the doorbell when I wanted to get back in.

It was a Friday evening; I had too much work and too little social life, not to mention a worried father, a distraught mother and an annoying younger sister. Life couldn't be better.

It had been the sort of drama that has played out a thousand thousand times before in a thousand thousand homes across the world. A long and disappointing day, a simmering resentment towards everybody; a word or two taken the wrong way, a raised voice, a smart retort... And all of a sudden there's the choice of a hurtful, pointless argument or of walking away without a word. I – you may have guessed – have always preferred the latter. So there I was.

I hadn't been paying much attention to where I was walking and I looked up to see I was at a row of somewhat odd shops at the traffic lights just before the Green. Antique shops, a newsagent's, a craft shop and a bookshop. With nothing more enticing in view, I wandered in the direction of the bookshop. It was small and cluttered, selling second-hand, leather-bound first editions. It was closed. I peered at the door.

**Lloyd's of Kew. **

**Books. **

**Open Tues. to Sat. 2 to 6.**

Well, that solved that one, no solace in browsing for me.

I was at the edge of Cambridge Road, or so the crumbling tile sign attached to one of the houses told me. It was residential, with rows of beautifully elegant Victorian houses, all in good repair. There was a tiny church halfway down: I strode in that direction, not out of any religious urge, but because I have always considered holy ground of any religion to be an excellent place to think.

There is something peaceful about an empty church - something pleasing too, since I studied art and appreciated the architecture. It was only when standing in front of it that I realised it wasn't a church - it was now a house. I smiled despite my disappointment. A church-house; brilliant! I had always wanted to live somewhere original, and here in front of me, an old church small enough to be a house situated down a quiet road near a bookshop. What more did I need? (Besides a cool two mil – cash – to buy it outright from its current owners, of course.)

I scowled fiercely and then stopped, since that made things worse. I felt as if I had just been hit over the back of the head – that is to say, the pain, the confusion and the resentment.

My sight was blurring, I felt sick, and I could hear a high monotone whining in my ears. I sat down, trying to work out what was wrong. The pain intensified in one agonising rush and I cradled my head in my hands, eyes shut, wondering if this was what a brain aneurism felt like. Somewhere in my skull my thoughts were scattering like panicked sheep, jibbering _'You're gonna die! You're gonna die!'_ in an unending and unhelpful mantra.

The agony lessened, as did the hiss of my own blood thrumming in my ears. I blinked and looked around carefully, deciding I would go home, argument or no, before I passed out in the gutter.

It was then I noticed that things were wrong. (Not a 'I was haemoraging on the pavement' sort of wrong. Disgusting and terminal as that may have been, at least given the past five minutes it would have been understandable... This however, was not.)

Cambridge Road seemed to have widened into a thoroughfare containing many people and taller more imposing buildings – the little street had suddenly grown up – I didn't approve. There was noise and a sense of movement and bustling about me. The air was colder; foggy and choking. I was sitting on a curb and behind me were the oddly flickering lights of Baker Street Metropolitan Line station. I stood up, trying to remember the way to Siân's house in Balcombe Street and wondering hazily how and why I was in Northwest London. We had often wished for the ability to teleport in order to cut out tedious hours of travel; but now I appeared to have the knack I was more alarmed than pleased. I walked uncertainly up Baker Street, feeling progressively worse.

The further I got, the more I noticed was wrong. There were no cars. There were horses and cobblestones. People didn't seem to be wearing the right clothes and the air had a bite to it of mud, coal fumes and horse shit.

In the words of Joseph Heller, "Nothing made sense and neither did everything else." Not to mention the fact that large black spots were bubbling before my eyes and I had a feeling I was about to faint - something I had never done before and was loathe to start now.

_Come on, come on, _I tried to counsel myself. _A little further, turn towards the gardens and you're almost at Balcombe Street. Siân will brew tea, stuff you with biscuits and ensure you don't die and the world doesn't freak out. It will be fine. But you have to get there first. Come on... _

My mental pep talk was doing wonders for my determination, but couldn't bolster my stamina. I could see next to nothing beyond the static that filled my head and my hands and feet were becoming vague and disconnected; sluggish in obeying commands and weak in execution.

_Damn blast shit and hell_ – I really was about to faint. I could fall over (and make a scene – in public!) or I could ask for help (of a stranger – how presumptuous!). Tight-laced English reserve balked at either, but I decided asking for aid was less embarrassing than braining myself on a muddy pavement.

Four steps more: I all but ricocheted off the nearest front door, grabbing the knocker and lintel to keep my feet from desertion. I managed to yank the bell-pull before discovering, with irritation, that the world had suddenly gone very dark.


	2. Chapter 2

I opened my eyes. It was early morning and I was lying in bed. There was the soft crackle of a fire in the tiny grate beneath a crowded mantle piece. It could have been my room, but it wasn't. I was in another's room, in another's bed, and everything was very far from fine.

I sat up slowly; I was cold despite my still being dressed beneath the blankets. I hugged them round me like a talisman and looked around the room. It was cluttered - not with furniture or ornaments but with paper, pens, several pipes and jars, a revolver, a violin case and many pieces of chemical apparatus. There were stacks of manuscripts and books all over the room - on shelves, desk and floor. (I'd like to say there was method in the madness, but if there was I couldn't see it.)

There was something else too. From an armchair opposite the bed, someone watched me. He was tall and lean, with his long legs stretched out towards the fire. His elbows rested on the arms of the chair, his thin fingers were steepled together and his eyes were half closed, giving an impression of meditation. He had a refined face with a narrow, hawk-ish nose and deep-set eyes; he couldn't have been older than thirty five, maybe not even that. There was something both familiar and unsettling about seeing him there. His appearance and his posture reminded me of someone from a film - possibly a character played by Peter Cushing or some other laudable old-school British actor.

"Miss Morris, I am glad to see you awake at last." The voice was quietly sonorous with a precise pronunciation that could have cut glass. (Gorgeous – a sort of further matured essence of Christopher Lee.)

The name he used was wrong, but I let it pass. The first story I ever wrote was about Catherine Morris, heroine of a war-torn future. I had a pair of dog-tags made with her name, rank and number on them and used them as a key-fob; my own particular charm to remind me dreams are worth having.

I swallowed, wanting to be sure of my voice before I used it. "How long have I been here?"

"It was late last night when you called and you have been unconscious since then."

"Where is this?" (I couldn't bring myself to utter the clichéd,_ 'Where am I?'_)

He looked a little disappointed at the question. "Ah, so your visit was not intentional? Pity. You are at 221b Baker Street..."

I scowled. As far as I could remember, there was no 221b Baker Street, just a bank or some such building occupying 221 to 223. I realised the speaker had given his name and I had not been paying attention. "I'm sorry?"

"I am Mr Sherlock Holmes, at your service."

I looked at him incredulously. There were several retorts that came to mind, none of them polite. I began to worry that I was in the company of a truly delusional individual (or at least eccentric actor), when I remembered the events of the previous night.

I struggled out of bed (the madman's bed, oh yey) and walked to the window. Being at the front of the house I had a perfect view of the street. And I didn't like it. Cobble stones and bad roads. Horse-drawn carts, carriages and cabs replaced the familiar mass of lorries, cars and motorbikes. Just as last night, the men in the street wore frock coats and the women wore fitted dresses with full skirts. Hats were on every head and walking canes in nearly every hand.

"Oh, Gods," I moaned quietly. "What is this? What the Kebb is going on?" I whispered, resorting to one of my own neologisms since it was the worst word I had the power to summon. Besides, it's not polite to say 'fuck' in front of strangers, especially when they're so obviously crazy and impeccably dressed.

"Is there something troubling you?" he asked mildly.

_Yes there bloody well is!_ I screamed silently. "Yes, there is." I sat down on the bed once more, but my gaze was forced back towards the window. "This is not funny. This is not good. I don't understand..." My words were sour and uncomfortable on my tongue. Something about the room (or perhaps the man) made me wish I'd been to a Swiss finishing school – I felt small, grubby and ill-spoken.

The man had stood up and opened the door. "Would you care to come into the sitting room, Miss Morris? We can discuss your situation. I can also introduce you to my colleague, Dr Watson."

I wanted to laugh - it was all so ridiculous. Was it a joke - was I dreaming? I stood my ground for a second or so, fruitlessly scrabbling for an explanation or the courage to demand one.

He looked at me enquiringly, one dark eyebrow raised.

Beaten and empty-handed, I followed him into a simply furnished, comfortable sitting room with hideous William Morris style wallpaper. A slightly rumpled man in grey tweeds was at the table reading the morning paper and eating toast. He looked surprised to see me and tried very hard not to stare in a manner that suggested he felt polite embarrassment on my behalf but was too chivalrous to make a fuss. (He was a little shorter and stockier than my black-coated eccentric and had an impressive moustache.)

"Ah yes, Watson, you were asleep when our visitor called late last night. She was somewhat exhausted, but has recovered now, I think."

He stood up and extended his hand. "It is a pleasure, Miss..."

"Morris," I supplied helpfully. (It still is my habit to give a false name to questionable strangers even now – it's caution, not malice.)

"Would you care to join us..."

Holmes shook his head. "I've eaten." For no good reason I wondered if he was lying.

"Well then, _me_, for some breakfast?"

"Uh, no. No thank you." All hunger or desire to eat had completely vanished. My stomach was busy tying itself into knots as I continued to try to comprehend the impossible.

As a practical joke this didn't surpass the imagination but it certainly surpassed the budget of my friends. Likewise neither jobbing actors nor lunatics had the resources to rent, dress and populate a back-lot of Pinewood so that they might live out a Victoriana fantasy. This meant either I was hallucinating wildly; or I was truly in the 1800s, conversing with Mr Sherlock Holmes.

Neither option was very reassuring.

I sat down a little shakily on the sofa because my legs had lost all interest in holding me up. I considered what I could do; crying hysterically and demanding everything be set right was traditional – and I could certainly see the appeal. Tears were already itching at the back of my eyes as I strove not to panic. It was all rather funny really – or at least sharply ironic.

I'm a girl who'd rather curl up with a book than watch TV. I adore all the trappings of my parent's Victorian house: wooden floors, high ceilings, wooden shutters, sash windows and real log fires. I love corsets and bustle skirts – although I love top hats and morning coats more. I detest mobile phones, cars and microwaves (although have a weakness for Mac computers, hot showers and neurofen, so admit modern progress not to be utterly abhorrent.)

Given all of that I should have been ecstatic – not desperately plotting how to return to all the rubbish I'd somehow left behind. But I was. Sheltered though it may be in Mr Holmes' sitting room, I would not be able to rely upon his hospitality forever. And the outside world was unlikely to treat me well when I was friendless, penniless and utterly clueless concerning the realities of Victorian life.

I hid my face in my hands for a moment and took a breath, mentally willing myself to get it together.

_Right. First thing's first._

"Mr Holmes, I have heard something of your powers of observation and deduction. Pray, what do you deduce from me?" Damn, I sounded like the character in a second-rate Ibsen play.

He settled himself in the chair to my right and smiled a small smile, as if acknowledging his prowess. "You live with your family and study literature. Your memory is poor. You are an artist, and bohemian in nature. Your temperament is unstable and you have suffered tragedy in your recent past – although I confess being unable to tell if it was personal illness or the death of a relative... One preceded the other perhaps. You care nothing for social convention. The archaic and occult interest you. Your family has money, but you do not."

I nodded. He was mostly correct. I had always wondered how well the great detective's methods would hold up to the modern way of living. I still doubted he'd be so flawless in the present-day world as he was in a time where the criminal element tended not to bathe and only owned one set of clothes, but at the end of the day I accept that a pair of unwashed hands could tell him a lot.

"But how, Holmes?" Watson asked.

"It was a simple matter..."

Before he could explain, I said, "Wait. I think I know – if I may? I live with my family because I'm young but obviously unmarried." I waved my left hand, decked as it was with silver rings but no band of gold. "There's a faded note," I pointed near my knuckles, "reminding me to bring my text of Hamlet, hence literature and lack of memory." I paused, looking at my hands, picking nervously at the side of my nail and catching sight of a small smudge of purple. "Paint stain. 'Purple Lake', an oil paint, so - artist. I dress..." My voice caught as I suddenly wondered what sort of a figure I cut by their standards – I was wearing a pair of _trousers_ for the love of all the gods. (Relatively smart narrow black jeans to be precise, but still, no wonder Watson had stared.) Add to that the faded black shirt and waistcoat and I probably looked like a runaway who'd stolen her brother's mourning dress. "I dress unconventionally – hence bohemian," I managed, feeling embarrassed by my unintentional impropriety.

"I wear jewellery - sterling, not tin - but have no purse, so must be living on my family's good graces. And I... I..." I worried at the side of my thumbnail wondering how best to skip over the most delicate yet least accurate part of Holmes' reasoning. I looked up to find his slate-grey eyes observing me with an acute and quiet interest.

He was either feeling cheated of his success or had pity in his famously unemotional heart after all. He shifted in his chair suddenly as if bored with the whole affair. "Clean and well spoken," he gestured to me, "but out of the house - unaccompanied - and in such a get up? Of course she doesn't care a fig for social convention, Watson." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case and box of lucifers. "One of her rings is inscribed with letters from the Fulthark, an ancient and supposedly magical script. Add to that, she swears by gods, plural, in a most heathen manner and one of her earrings is an Eye of Horus – there's the link to the occult and antiquity." He lit a cigarette and sighed in displeasure. "It seems even my powers are to become common-place, if this young lady is anything to judge by."

"Oh believe me, Mr Holmes, I'm not _anything_ to be judged by. But, if you would, I have a problem desperately in need of solving."

Holmes at once looked up - depression banished, grey eyes sparkling. "I am listening," he said.

"I'm lost," I explained. As an opening I admit it wasn't up to all the young ladies with their troubles Doyle wrote about. They usually had people trying to kill them or some sweetheart behaving in a 'singular' manner. Then again Watson got to describe them as 'modestly dressed' 'shining' and 'lovely' – I dreaded to think what adjectives he'd have to pen for me.

"But you live in London," Holmes corrected with apparent annoyance.

I couldn't be bothered to think how he'd worked that out. "You'll think I'm mad."

Holmes opened his thin lips to tell me – no doubt – that in my strange attire and shoeless state it was a notion he'd already given some credence to. Watson frowned across at him from the other chair and Holmes said nothing, returning instead to his cigarette.

Having caught this little exchange, I laughed - I couldn't help it. When presented with the Gordian Knot in their sitting room, Holmes would dissect it with the sword of reason; Dr Watson would attempt to untie it – so long as that didn't distress the knot.

Without Holmes, Watson would solve little, without Watson, Holmes would alienate or confound all he sought to help. No wonder they worked so well together – they balanced one another perfectly.

"Sir..." I'd never called anyone 'sir' I my life – what was wrong with me? "You were right when you said I came from here, yet in another sense you were equally wrong." _Well done, that cleared everything up perfectly,_ I snarked to myself.

He watched me lazily through half-closed eyes.

"But, you see... I..." There was no good way to start this. "Before I continue, would you be so kind as to tell me the exact date?"

"Watson?"

"It's Saturday the ninth of February." He gestured with the newspaper.

I closed my eyes briefly, schooling myself not to wince. "The year?" I prompted.

"1888, of course."

I bit my lip. The day was right, but the rest was over a century off. "I do live in London – Kew - opposite the Botanical Gardens. But the year..." My voice was beginning to shake and I wondered if I would actually be able to say it. "T-the year I live in, is - is 2009."

There was a strained silence, eventually broken by Watson's exclamation of, "Good God! Do you truly believe that you come from the future?"

I nodded, wretchedly and then shrugged feeling twitchy and unhappy. "Yes – well, no. Believe? I don't believe – I don't believe anything! Belief implies a fiction, something disputable that requires faith to sustain it. And it's not – or at least it wasn't yesterday – because it's true - I live in London in the year two thousand and nine... That's all there is to it."

Dr Watson had stood as I started to rant; now he took out his pocket watch and timed my pulse. I stayed quiet not wanting ammonia or laudanum forced on me – although a brandy might have been nice. He felt my forehead - I knew I had no temperature.

Holmes raised his eyebrows in a look of ironic enquiry.

"She's not delirious," the doctor confirmed. "There's no fever..." His tone was grave and I knew what he was thinking.

"_I am not mad,"_ I said softly and with some feeling. "Although I have no idea how to convince you of the fact. I doubt you'll simply take my word for it."

Watson was pacing the room now, a trait he had obviously borrowed from Holmes. "My dear young lady, do you have any notion of what you're saying? Asking us to accept you have come from the future – as if it were a country to be travelled from? It's impossible. It is against all natural laws of physics and science..."

"You think I don't know that?" I growled. "Wait a moment! Dr Watson, have you published any of Holmes' cases yet?"

He looked at me, slightly puzzled. "Yes. In last year's Beeton's Annual. The first case I attended. _A Study in Scarlet_."

"I can tell you!" I exclaimed. "I can tell you - I can tell you things about cases I shouldn't know - words you haven't written - things that haven't happened yet. Mr Holmes, you take a seven per-cent solution of cocaine because your mind rebels at stagnation. Morphine too, although I don't know the dosage. You keep the syringe in a Morocco case, tobacco in a Persian slipper. You suffer black moods when bored and when working will cheerfully wear yourself down to nothing. There are seventeen stairs from the hall to here and Mrs Hudson is the landlady who puts up with you both – although she never took kindly to Holmes' revolver practice even if it does spell 'VR'. The first case you ever solved was about the 'Gloria Scott' and a college friend's father. It amuses you to work on crimes and then hand credit to slow policemen of Scotland Yard - namely Lestrade, Gregson, Hopkins and Jones..."

I was struggling now; although I had read all of the stories it had been at least a year back and my neurons had moved on from being entertained by such callous melodrama in _The Dying Detective_ to reading _Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell_ and fancying Doc Holliday of gunfighting fame. (I never claimed any of my obsessions were related or rational.) All in all this meant the finer points of the detective's past and cases had quite left my memory.

"You have an elder brother, Mycroft, who lunches at the Diogenes Club and works at the Foreign Office. His mind is even more amazing than yours..."

Holmes' face was impassive; his eyes held a cool indifference as if he was simply waiting for my outpouring of easily gleaned fact and utter delusion to end.

"Moriarty! And Colonel Sebastian Moran! Professor Moriarty, he..."

Holmes had sat up straight and, possibly for the first time ever, looked surprised. "What do you know of him?" he enquired, his voice low and taut.

"Very little," I confessed. "But there is a matter of some importance which I must speak to you about. Alone."

Dr Watson obediently got up to go, although I could read from his expression that he had serious misgivings about my sanity. Wonderful.

"Whatever you have to say, you may speak in confidence to myself and Dr Watson." Holmes motioned to his friend.

I shook my head stubbornly. "Not this time."

"Miss Morris, you may speak to us both," he informed me irascibly, "or none at all."

"Dr Watson deserves your every confidence," I agreed, "but I can't speak with him present. If I tell him it may ruin everything – it'll certainly change events – and if all that's happening to me here and now is real, then I'm damned if I'll have such recklessness on my head!" Watson's eyebrows shot up; I'd forgotten that 'damn' was still considered strong language. _Arse._

"I have some information which may save your life, Mr Holmes, but - I, I can't..." What was I doing? Trying to control the fate of a fictional character? That was wrong on so many levels I didn't know where to begin – but what else was there to do? "Please, this is important! I don't care what you think of me..." (that was a lie and a half) "...please, I just need you to listen."

Perhaps it was something in my voice, but this time Watson left and Holmes did not object.

As the door closed to the sitting room and Watson's tread could be heard retreating to his own room, the detective unfolded himself from his chair, selected a pipe from the mantelpiece and filled the bowl with pinches of shag tobacco. His thin fingers knew their business and he didn't bother to attend them, looking instead at me all the while.

I'd had my fill of being scrutinised like mould on a microscope. "I'm not deluded," I muttered tartly. "Delusion is gabbling about half-crowns and oysters. _'Shall the world, then, be overrun with oysters? Horrible!'_" I quoted with some derision, rolling my eyes.

"I wouldn't know," he commented.

Quoting words at him he'd not yet said wasn't going to get me anywhere other than in a straight jacket. I changed tack slightly. "I haven't escaped from an asylum," I told him.

"And what makes you think, my dear young lady, that I should believe you have?" His dulcet tones edged towards the sardonic – I think I was wearing on his patience.

I offered him an empty smile in return to show that he was wearing just a little on mine. Don't slate me for being a bitch; I adore Hamlet but if I met him I'm sure I'd want to slap him. What I mean is that being constantly studied by Mr Holmes was a novel but not wholly pleasant experience. "Because I have no coat, hat or shoes, like most straying mental patients. Because I'm wearing trousers, have too many earrings and hair that looks like a recently clipped privet hedge! Because I'm insisting on things that no one would rightly credit..." I picked at the edge of my thumbs, still not wanting to say it, the one thing about me that I wished had passed his notice but I knew damn well had not.

The grey eyes had the grace to leave me and focus on the match that lit the pipe. "And because of the numerous scars upon your wrists," he finished around the stem of the rosewood.

"...Yes."

"Well?" he enquired.

"Well what?" I bit back, fed up with finding myself so lost and harassed. "Am I supposed to give you some suitable explanation for my behaviour so you don't naturally assign it to the weakness of the female character? If I told you I'd suffered from a bout of brain fever would that give the facts the proper grounding? Well bollocks to that and bollocks to you – I get depressed and I carve bloody big gashes in my arms – that's all the explanation there is! Were cocaine or opium legal I'd have a field of poppies in my back garden instead and an addict's rash on my veins," I hissed, feeling spiteful enough to bring up his habit. "My dealing with the world gives me scars that are stripes instead of spots – so what? I'd gladly fall into the arms of Morpheus in an instant if I didn't risk copious retching and then being locked up for ten years."

"Vulgar and poetic in the same breath. Fascinating," he said blandly. Holmes regarded me impassively but there was a hint of something turning the slate of his eyes to silver; I think it was amusement. "But you suppose too much. I wasn't after a reason for your martyr's habit. I was hoping you'd tell me more about Moriarty."

I blinked, feeling very relieved and very stupid. Not to mention rather embarrassed yet again. I bit my lip. "Do you know Baritsu?"

The shine in his eyes grew stronger – apparently now I was more entertaining than vexing. "Anyone else must surely find your conversational style lamentable: you jump in at the close leaving others to map your course unaided." He shrugged, as if to say, _just as well I possess the second finest mental compass in England! _"I assume you speak of Barton-Wright's fighting stance? Queer mess of boxing and brawling he picked up in the Orient – Barton's Jujitsu indeed!" A slight mercurial smile and a shift of mood to accompany it. "I learnt the basics. I find in my line of work it pays to exploit whatever advantage one can – although," he added, "Queensbury would be apoplectic. It's hardly the sport for a gentleman."

"It will save your life," I told him bluntly.

"Oh?"

"Three or four years from now you're close to destroying not only the Professor's gang but the man himself – you set a trap to bring them all to justice. Moriarty visits you in person, here, and demands you leave off your investigations..."

Holmes' angular face set into a foreboding scowl.

"Naturally you refuse. He tries to kill you – run away coaches, falling bricks, street gangs, that sort of thing. You and Dr Watson draw the Professor out to Switzerland of all places, to a village by the Riechenbach Falls..."

He glanced up to the print that hung above the mantelpiece showing a majestic waterfall amidst snowy mountains.

"Watson is called away to attend a young lady dying of tuberculosis back in the village – a fiction to get you alone at the falls. There you meet the Professor. He allows you to leave a death-note. You fight on a ledge and he almost succeeds in forcing you to your death; but you get the better of him because of your knowledge of Baritsu." As a summery I suppose that was almost on par with saying of Ben Hur, _'there's a chariot race. Ben Hur wins'_ but then Holmes claimed never to appreciate a story for the story's sake so I thought he wouldn't mind.

I was speaking softly now even though I felt sure Watson would never do anything so gauche as eavesdrop. "Sebastian Moran tries to kill you on the slopes of the waterfall with his airgun; he fails and both you and he go to ground. The world believes you're dead – and you tell no one but Mycroft otherwise. Watson writes your obituary." I looked at my hands as I spoke; if Holmes felt no remorse at this then I didn't want to know; and if he did feel remorse then I wasn't rude enough to intrude. "You travel, spending time in Vienna and Tibet, I think, amongst other places. You return to London three years later when you hear of a murder Moran commits."

"So you say," Holmes noted dryly. "Most of your tale is pure fancy and conjecture. As for what scant facts you present... I can account for no favourable way in which you got your information, nor why you should make up this ridiculous story." He turned from me and stared again at the print above the mantelpiece, a saturnine and silently brooding presence in black.

I was enchanted and infuriated in equal measure. Not being able to explain my predicament in terms of flawless logic was beginning to become a major hindrance. Inspiration struck: something of a cheap shot but I took it. "Remember the old axiom: when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains - however improbable - must be the truth."

He turned swiftly at that and glared at me intently.

"That is what you say, or at least think, isn't it? I swear to you this is real - not a joke, nor a lie nor a 'singular coincidence'."

Mr Sherlock Holmes stalked back to his armchair and settled in it once more, taking a pinch of tobacco from the slipper in passing to refill his pipe. "Assuming, for the moment, that you are from the future, how do you know so much about me and my work?"

"Dr Watson's books, whether you appreciate them or not, become very popular..."

"Romanticism," muttered Holmes.

"They're regarded as classics and are still in print. I read them. I have, as you observed, a poor memory for the educational or everyday; but poetry... literature and... the unusual..." I slowed to a stop, shivering, overcome with a sudden and vicious nausea.

Holmes did not at first appear to notice as he re-lit his pipe and asked, "Hm. So what scientific discoveries are made in the future?"

I didn't answer - I couldn't answer. I sunk back on the sofa, curling up with a sob.

Holmes approached, concerned, and seeing my condition called, "Watson! Watson - come here quickly - bring some brandy..." and as the doctor entered the room, "We are in need of your excellent medical opinion."

Watson once more felt my pulse and temperature. "I cannot understand it, Holmes, her pulse is rapid, yet she is damnably cold!"

I closed my eyes. I couldn't think - something was pounding in my head - I was so cold it hurt.

"We'll move her closer by the fire. Watson, send Mrs Hudson up with some blankets and fresh coffee."

Although the blankets were for me, the coffee must have been for Holmes, for I was in no state to drink it. An attempt was made to give me brandy but I was shivering too hard to swallow and the fumes made me want to retch. The sofa and I were drawn close to the fire as gooseflesh danced across my back beneath the blankets and I faded in and out of my own personal hell of darkness and ice.

There was conversation in hushed tones and the sound of shoes pacing tirelessly around the room – inexplicably making me feel ten times worse. I made some small and pathetic sound of pain. A voice gave a command, a few words only but I couldn't grasp their meaning; and then the room was silent save for the energetic crackling of the fire in the grate. A few minutes more, and Holmes began to play his violin.

I eventually fell asleep - or passed out - as he continued to play a low melodious tune, soulful and melancholic, probably of his own devising. It was the most beautiful thing I think I've ever heard; and I would have gladly committed any felony you care to name (up to and possibly including GBH) if it meant I could have a recording of it.


	3. Chapter 3

It was early afternoon when I finally opened my eyes. Outside it was overcast and foggy. The fire had burnt low in the grate and the room smelt strongly of rich tobacco smoke.

"The sufferer awakes," commented Holmes with a smile, as he saw me sit up and rub my stiff shoulders. "Watson was worried. He could not make head nor tail of what was the matter with you."

Of course Holmes made no reference to whether or not he gave a damn, but then I didn't expect him to – it wasn't how he worked.

"I believe there's some toast and coffee waiting for you, if you would care to have it," he said with a small bow. I smiled and thanked him, charmed this time without irritation. It was true, just as in the books. Holmes was aloof, calculating, eccentric, laconic – but always a gentleman.

Watson was at the table as before, reading. He looked up, warm concern having replaced his earlier disquiet about me. "How do you feel now?"

"Better, thank you."

He pulled up a chair for me and poured out a cup of coffee. I was about to butter myself some distressingly pale toast, when I stopped.

"Something wrong?" asked Holmes, sharp as ever.

"No; maybe. I don't know." I tried to explain, without sounding completely demented. "I just suddenly thought of Persephone."

"Who?" Holmes evidently knew as much about legend as he did about Thomas Carlyle. (Although given Carlyle's all-pervasive popularity of the time that had to be a lie – he might as well have claimed to never have heard of Dickens.)

"She was a goddess in Greek mythology. She was taken to the land of the dead and had to remain there for half of every year because she ate six pomegranate seeds."

Watson looked confused at the seeming _non sequitur_. Holmes understood and laughed.

"I know it's not the same, but I don't know what effect anything I do might have. My being here might change history, or change _something_..." I ended lamely, as I remembered that Mr Sherlock Holmes was supposedly just a character in a book. "Dr Watson? When you published 'A Study in Scarlet' did you write under your own name?"

"Not exactly. I have a literary man, an editor of sorts. It's perfectly common for periodicals to..."

"Conan Doyle," I interrupted, unsure what to think any more.

"Well, yes. Scotsman. Good chap. Why?" he queried.

I looked resigned and heavenward as if seeking celestial aid. None was forthcoming. I sighed. Gods this was awkward. "I have always considered - as does everyone else in my time - that Dr Watson and Sherlock Holmes were fictional characters from the mind of Mr..." I corrected myself. "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."

"Well really!" he gasped, and laughed until he had to sit down, quite helpless with mirth.

"Although many literary followers and scholars play 'The Great Game' – I mean they... they..." Why had I opened my mouth? Ah yes, to insert my foot. At least I hadn't said 'Sherlockian' yet. "They like to pretend that you both existed and that the cases are fact." I looked at the floor and my bare feet upon it. "People all over the world still send letters here, asking for your assistance."

This time Holmes laughed until he nearly choked. "Marginalized as fancy yet still sent missives crying out about the importance of missing dogs and farthings – the worst of both worlds!" When he had recovered, he asked, "So how, as far as you can tell, did you get here? I don't believe it was intentional."

"No," I agreed perhaps a little too vehemently. "It wasn't. I was walking down Cambridge Road; it is just a little way from where I live..."

"You left your house in a hurry. Why?"

His train of logic escaped me for a moment, until I realised. "The lack of coat and boots?"

"Quite so," he said, with a flicker of impatience.

"Yes, I had a quarrel with my parents about the amount of work I was doing..."

"You're hoping to attend Royal Holloway University?"

At that point I felt the cold slap of surprise that everyone else must routinely feel at Holmes' deductions. How in the hell did he know that? "Um... yes. Anyway, the argument was of no importance."

"Everything," he corrected, "is of importance."

"If you are trying to suggest that a member of my family sent me here to the past, then I'm afraid you're mistaken. Even to me, time travel is a thing of fiction and theory, not reality. In the back of my mind I still wonder if I am staggering down Kew Road, talking to myself and utterly out of my head."

"Is that likely?" Holmes asked with interest from beside the fire, re-lighting his pipe with sugar tongs and a hot coal.

"_It is possible, but not probable,"_ I quoted with a wry smile.

"Hmh. So what happened?"

"I was walking past a small church and I suddenly felt very ill - much as I did this morning. I sat down at the side of the road waiting for the pain to pass. When I looked up again, I was outside Baker Street station with no idea of how I'd got there. I still felt dazed, so I headed for Balcombe Street where a friend of mine lives. When I could walk no further, I rang on the nearest doorbell. I seem to recall the door being opened, and then I collapsed. All rather melodramatic, I'm afraid."

"Quite so," said Holmes sternly. "You gave Mrs Hudson a shock; she was most upset..."

I looked askance at him – he was one to talk! He chose not to acknowledge my expression.

"...On the other hand, you made my day considerably more interesting and saved me from the vice which so annoys my friend Dr Watson."

I took this to be a reference to his cocaine habit, a view confirmed by Watson's muttered comment of, "Holmes, the game's not worth the candle. It will kill you one of these days."

"He's right you know," I offered, trying not to sound too sanctimonious. "Keep it up and you're likely to get gangrene or brain damage. Oh, and tobacco gives you lung cancer and heart attacks."

"I say - I've never heard of any correlation between..."

I wasn't about to enter into a medical debate on the properties of tobacco with a Victorian doctor – there was a waste of time if ever there was one. I shrugged. "Well it's true none the less. The amount you both smoke it's probably more damaging than the cocaine and opium combined. But since they haven't criminalize smoking yet I'll stick with Dr Watson on this one – ditch the needle."

I don't think Holmes was used to being lectured, and certainly not by an eighteen year old girl. He stared at me for some moments, before uttering a short, sardonic laugh. _"__In alio pediculum, in te ricinum non vides,"_ he accused softly, the Latin version I think of 'people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones'. Fair play, since he hadn't said a word against my own brand of self-destruction. "Hm. I have never yet encountered anyone whose clothes and views were so contrary to all that's to be expected. My dear young lady, you are a mass of contradictions."

I smiled, relieved he wasn't angry and deciding to take his comment as a somewhat backhanded compliment.

"I have been thinking while you slept, and now, if you are quite well, I believe it is time for us to take a cab."

"But where on earth to, Holmes?"

"My dear Watson, can you ask? We must go to Cambridge Road. I can deduce no more curled up by the fire. It is time for a little more practical analysis. Besides," he shot at me with a crooked smile, "I'm told on great authority that smoke is bad for the lungs and fresh air will do us all good."

"Perhaps," grumbled the doctor, as he put on his coat, "you should talk to Wells."

"Who?"

"An old acquaintance of mine, writes novels. He's an imaginative fellow, as taken with science-fiction, Holmes, as you are with science-fact."

Holmes dismissed the topic with, "Never heard of him."

"Wells?" I asked, trying to remember what the 'H.G' stood for. "Uh, Herbert George Wells?"

He nodded. "You two are very like minded. Insane, both of you." And then, "How do you know of him?"

"Oh, I've read his books too."

"No sister of mine would ever read such rubbish," muttered Holmes, looking at me as I stood up and taking in my whole appearance once more - a cross, I suppose, between a pallbearer and a street urchin. He shook his head and muttered something else which probably also began, _'No sister of mine,'_ and ended, _'would ever dress like that'._

The cab journey passed uneventfully although there'd been some debate at the offset as to whether a hansom was a suitable mode of transport. (Watson claimed – for my sake - it wasn't. Holmes remained reticent. I demanded to know what was wrong with me being in a cab? The good doctor looked uncomfortable. Low on patience, Holmes hailed one so I could see for myself.) Hansom cabs it turns out have more in common with chariots than a grand coach and four, having only one horse, two wheels and very limited seating arrangements.

"They go at quite a pace," Watson told me, obviously still concerned for propriety and my sensibilities.

"Faster than seventy miles an hour?" I enquired sweetly.

Dr Watson opened his mouth and closed it again, somewhat thrown by my air of equanimity.

"Stop lagging, both of you," Holmes commanded. And then to the cabby, with a slight note of vinegar, "Botanic Gardens at Kew – we're apparently in no hurry."

After the three of us had squeezed into the two-seater, Holmes displayed his remarkable ability to 'switch off' his mind and occupy it with the most simple of things. The first half of the journey passed in silence, while the second half was taken up with an argument as to whether Bach's _Toccata et Fugue_ could be played sufficiently on one violin. Having heard a modern version played in just such a way, I argued in its favour, while Holmes evidently felt that his solo recitation never did full justice to the piece.

"I take it you have heard _Toccata et Fugue_ attempted by a solo violinist?"

"Yes," I told him, neglecting to mention that there was also a guitar, a keyboard and an orchestra mixed into the background.

"It never is quite the same," he sighed. "The violin does not have the power or grandeur of an organ for which the music was written."

I had to cough to stifle my laughter. The idea of Sherlock Holmes playing the organ to help him concentrate flung up one of the silliest images my mind could create. It looked like something out of a bad Dracula film. "I would have loved to hear you play Bach, Mr Holmes. It is a pity I'll not stay long enough."

"Ah, that remains to be seen. Since you do not know how you got here, Miss Morris, it may not be possible to find out how to send you back."

"I have faith, Mr Holmes," I said, trying to remind myself I was not a pious maid in a penny-dreadful. But I couldn't help it – I did have faith. Sherlock Holmes had accepted my case and so Sherlock Holmes would solve it.

The cab was now driving at a decent clip along Kew Road. "Could we stop a moment?" I asked, as we passed Victoria Gate. Watson rapped with his cane on the roof, and the cab slowed to a halt.

I looked across the road. "I live at number 266. Gods, my house does look very new. It should be all of twenty years old, I think – the gates!" In my time nothing separated the drive from the pavement, but here a set of delicate wrought iron gates leant the whole place a certain forbidding grandeur. "Makes it look like a manor house," I muttered with some approval. "Cambridge Road isn't far from here. Shall we walk? I'd like to see what else I can recognise – _perhaps graffiti myself a note on a wall or two_." I wasn't exactly honest about my reasons and my flippancy was an outright sham: I was beginning to feel slightly sick, and hoped the walk would make me better.

"Capital. What do you think, Watson?"

"I agree, provided Miss Morris is well enough."

I was comfortable with Holmes' leaps of logic, but coming from the doctor, they left me startled.

"You are shivering, my dear, and your face is quite pale."

"How careless of me," exclaimed Holmes, "you have no coat. You must be frozen..." And before I could protest he had leapt neatly from the hansom and pulled off his thick great coat, draping it over my lap with an off-hand flourish.

"I couldn't possibly, I'll get it muddy..." I'd borrowed Kieran's coat in Norfolk and drowned in it without guilt, but even Norfolk had tarmac – London in 1888 had copious amounts of mud.

Holmes was already paying the driver. He threw back a casual, "It matters not," and then began striding away. Watson hurried to follow.

I struggled into the coat and stepped out onto the pavement, before remembering that young ladies were supposed to wait for a gentleman to help them alight from carriages.

Watson – lowering the hand I'd inadvertently scorned - looked a little bemused too, although whether it was because of my independence or because Holmes' coat was indeed far too long for me, I couldn't tell.

"_The game is - _no doubt -_ afoot,"_ he said with a smile. "Come along, or at his pace we shall lose him."

"_Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'__,"_ I murmured.

We eventually caught up at the corner of Mortlake Road.

"The bookshop!" I stared in amazement. It didn't appear to be open for business, but its sign was painted above it in fresh golden letters.

**Lloyds of Kew. Books**.

"Found something you recognise?" asked Holmes languidly as I hurried to peer in at the window.

"Yes, the shop, it's still the same – still t-there..."

"Are you quite all right?" enquired the doctor, sounding a little worried.

"No. This – this is the third time - why am I felling so ill?" I knew my voice was petulant but I couldn't help it.

"Travel sickness," Holmes announced. "If the motion of the waves at sea may produce such an unpleasant affect upon the inner ear, think then what traversing time might do. I would be very surprised if one did not feel sick. Ah, here is your Cambridge Road."

I followed him around the corner, uncertain of what we'd be likely to find. (A bright, shimmering stargate-style wormhole would have been nice and obvious, but I wasn't betting on it.) We found a quiet road lined with ordinary houses - completely unremarkable.

My breath froze in my lungs and Watson caught me by the shoulders as I fell. I felt like I'd just been swung at with an ice-carved cricket bat. With his help I staggered back, out of Cambridge Road, and the pain subsided to a dull and sickly ache. The doctor sat me down on the front step of the bookshop.

"That," I announced weakly, "was not nice."

"Holmes, her pulse rate is higher again, and her fingers are white with cold. May I suggest Miss Morris doesn't go until..."

"It's not Morris," I said, leaning back against the door and trying to stop shivering. "My name's Emma Morrison." I have no idea why, but at that moment it seemed more important than anything that I should be known by my true name. I wasn't sure how to explain the matter of the dogtags, so I didn't. I had a notion that I had just furthered Holmes' opinion that women were devious and fickle, but I didn't care.

Nor, it seemed, did he. "The church, half way down, is that where you said you last were?"

I nodded carefully. "I think so."

"If I am not mistaken, which I very rarely am, that is where you need to be." He was about to search his pockets, when he realised I had his coat. "Is there some tobacco in there?"

I searched and eventually came up with a pipe and a twist of tobacco, although unfortunately, no matches.

"Blast," he muttered.

It is one of my favourite memories of Sherlock Holmes, seeing him standing there (dressed faultlessly save for his coat,) with an unlit pipe between his teeth, looking perplexed.

I smiled, and then stopped as a sense of guilt bleached some of the pleasure away. I'd gatecrashed their rooms, taken up their morning, had fits of the vapours, necessitated over an hour's drive and had nothing to give for it. "Sir, I know you often solve cases for no fee save your expenses, but I am afraid even those are beyond me." I checked my jeans pockets as I spoke, just to make sure. I had lied. I did have some money - five pence to be exact. I grinned. "All my worldly riches," and handed him the little silver coin.

Holmes studied it carefully, as did Watson. "Extraordinary," he commented.

But that wasn't enough. There needed to be something else. What? After a moment's thought, I unclasped the necklace I wore. It was a thin chain to which I had attached a whole manner of little charms. A tiny bone dice, a crescent moon made of onyx, a bell, a silver sword, a shard of quartz and other such oddments. I chose the silver sword and snapped it free. It was about an inch long and had a bead of garnet set in the hilt. I gave it to him. "It will go well on your watch chain – _at least until Ms Adler gives you that sovereign_," I mused, sotto voce.

I was procrastinating. If I didn't go, I would never leave. I stood gracelessly, took off the coat and returned it to its rightful owner. "Thank you for everything that you have done for me. I really am very grateful, especially since I've probably been a very poor guest. I hesitate to ask for any more favours, but there is one..."

"Miss Morrison, it would be a pleasure."

"Write to me? I need some proof, something to show me this was real..."

I did not wait for a reply, I did not really want to hear one, I just ran. Ignoring the pain, ignoring the shout behind me, concentrating only on the little church half way down the road.

I passed out before I reached it.


	4. Chapter 4

I pulled myself up, noting with little interest that my head was an inch away from the edge of the curb stone. I was in the gutter amongst the soggy leaves. It was raining.

I blinked. I was in Cambridge Road and - oh joy - there were cars parked in front of the houses. There were telephone wires and satellite dishes, electric lights and traffic jams. The air was polluted by SO2 and CO4, not sewage and horses. There was a plane in the sky. Things were prosaic, mundane and ugly. Wasn't it wonderful?

I lurched to my feet, happy to discover I was cold, covered in leaves, missing my scarf, and none the worse for any of it. I walked slowly out of Cambridge Road, thinking of my pointless request. _Write to me. Ye gods._

_Stupid. So stupid._ The Post Office go by numbers corresponding to addresses, not years.

I stopped by the bookshop, and on a whim since it was open, entered. It was the kind of pokey old shop where the keeper is a real bibliophile and will do everything within his power _not_ to sell or part with any of his beloved books.

"Can I help?" a grizzled, bespectacled but clear-eyed man behind the desk asked.

"Um, just looking..." I glanced at the numerous and bulging shelves. "Actually, do you have any fiction?"

"Yes, who by?" The man had stood up and was fumbling to put on his glasses.

"By Sir Arthur Conan - no, wait. Do you have any books written by Dr Watson?"

The man stopped and stared at me. Finally he removed his glasses and began to polish them absently. He was obviously thinking. He seemed to reach a decision. "Would you wait here a moment, please?" He disappeared into an adjoining room, also full of dusty books. I waited. After some minutes he returned with a carefully wrapped parcel under his arm and a letter or note of some kind. "Took me a while to remember," he explained, "and another while to find it. Could I take your name?"

I was a little confused. Buying a book did not usually require name rank and number. "Morrison. Um. Emma."

He looked excited for some reason. "Morrison! This is for you then, this is yours..." he added, waving the package at me. "I suppose one should ask for ID but there's no way you could have known about it..."

I had no idea what he was talking about. "I haven't got any money with me at present..."

"No, no, no, there is no charge, this was paid for a long time ago, and quite handsomely I believe, for the time."

I took the parcel and then looked at him stupidly. "I, uh, I don't understand."

"This book shop," he explained, "was here before the 1900s. My brother bought it in the '70s, but there were some rather peculiar conditions in the contract that went with it. Namely, a package that was to be delivered to its named recipient - but not before 2009. It was, we have been told, a book and already paid for. It was not to be sold or given to anyone else. It's was all set out in a letter, signed by a Dr Watson." He smiled. "Finally got it to the right person, as requested. Would you mind opening it here? I know it's your business, but I've always wondered what it was..."

"Yeah, sure. Have you got any scissors?" I lay the package on the desk, and waited as he found me a penknife to cut the twine.

I unwrapped it.

Bound exquisitely in dark leather was 'The Sign of Four' by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, as well as a letter neatly addressed to Miss Morrison.

"That's a beauty," murmured the shopkeeper, looking at the front page. "Ah, a Sherlock Holmes story gifted by a Dr Watson – very droll to play on the coincidence. First edition. 1890. Pages uncut too!" He laughed. "Not for sale is it?"

I shook my head possessively. "Not a chance!" I wrapped it up carefully again. "Um. Thank you."

"Thank _you_. Glad to get it off my mind – it's been sitting in the safe for as long as I can remember! A real mystery. We knew it was a book of course, but it was all just such a peculiar song and dance..." He was looking at me with a hopeful and slightly hungry expression, in desperate need of an explanation but too bemused and polite to demand one.

"It was, uh, a sort of literary treasure hunt. Thomas Carlyle was my however-many-greats grandfather. He started the game - a quest really - with his daughters and it still crops up as a family tradition with Christening gifts and legacies and such. This was the last unclaimed prize."

He raised his eyebrows at me, game but uncertain, just like my explanation.

"I'm awfully good at crosswords," I lied with enthusiasm as if that cleared up everything. (Incidentally, the bit about me being related to Carlyle is actually true, but the rest was flimsy invention.)

Thankfully the bibliophile was too caught in the situation to really argue. He was almost chuckling to himself. "I'll have to phone my brother to tell him – legacies and treasure hunts, eh? ... Aren't you cold with no shoes on?"

I laughed, thanked him again, and scarpered.

Before I got home, I stopped at a telephone box and called Siân on reverse charges, begging her to be my alibi for the last day and night. She agreed readily enough and, being Siân, didn't ask for a reason, knowing she would get the full explanation when I gave it.

Of course as soon as I went into the house, I walked straight into another argument with parents hungry for answers. But Siân was as good as her word, my alibi held and I apologised to everyone profoundly, blaming my behaviour on stress and general stupidity.

The only other point of interest is the fact that on the inside cover of the book was written,

_I thought my scribing fact, _

_Holmes proclaimed it romanticism _

_and you swore it was fiction. _

_Perhaps in this case they are all one and the same?_

_J H Watson MD._

That, and of course, the letter.

_Miss Morrison, _

_Having been made aware of my friend's forthcoming publication, I thought it an excellent time to write to you. It has been almost two years now since you visited us at Baker Street and vanished from our sight in Cambridge Road. _

_I believe I am right in saying that your case is the only one in my career so far, that was, and still is, completely mystifying. Neither Dr Watson nor myself could find the reason for your experiences, but, as I frequently remind Watson, life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. _

_I have taken some care that this book and my letter should reach you. I would like to thank you for the information you gave me concerning Professor Moriarty. In view of the nature of your departure, I am aware your story may hold both truth and merit._

_Watson has declined to chronicle your case, although he tells me he has spoke about it to his friend, Wells. _

_You don't mind if I make use of your scarf, I trust? Mine was the unfortunate victim of a chemical experiment that went awry._

_I hope this letter finds you in the best of health, and believe me to be, my dear young lady,_

_Very sincerely yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes._


End file.
